[movie based] The White Witch comes to Aslan's camp to claim Edmund as her own, but Aslan is gone. Peter, newly made High King of Narnia, is left to make a decision that will change his life forever—or end it.

Edmund, his mouth full,
quickly swallowed the offending foodstuff. Lucy grinned and laughed;
Susan only smiled. Then her eyes flicked upward, from her place on
the little table, to see Peter walking over the little hill toward
them.

The other three
Pevensies had not seen him since a short time earlier that morning,
when Oreius had come to fetch him. When he sat down at the table,
Susan, most practical, was the first to speak.

"Where were you?"
she asked, as Peter sat down at the table beside her.

"Did you talk to
Aslan?' Lucy asked eagerly. Peter nodded, reaching for the plate
of toast which Edmund had abandoned. Lucy shot Edmund a triumphant
look, as if to say, "I told you so."

"He's going,"
said Peter, once he'd chewed and swallowed. He looked around the
table at his siblings. "Aslan's going."

To the other three,
this was good news. They relaxed, but Peter's expression remained
serious. "You don't get it," he said exasperatedly, his voice
urgent. "If Aslan's gone, I'm the only one left, aren't I?"

"Are not," Edmund
managed, as soon as he had gulped down a mouthful of cool water.
"We're kings and queens of Narnia too, you know."

"Yes, but I'm High
King."

"Who told you that?"
Edmund challenged crossly.

"Aslan," said
Peter. In any other instance, there would have been at least some
trace of smugness in his voice. Right now, though, he appeared too
nervous for that. "What if something happens while Aslan's away? I'm supposed to deal with it?"

"Well, there you
are," said Susan. "There's nothing to worry about." She
went back to her breakfast, completely unperturbed. Edmund still
looked irritated that Peter was in charge rather than himself, but
said nothing. To his credit, he was doing his best to reconcile
himself with the idea; after all, Peter could have said some nasty
things, all true, to him earlier, and had refrained.

Lucy, already finished
with her meal, had taken the dagger from her belt and was now turning
its unsheathed blade over in her hands. "Do you suppose you and I
will be fighting?" she asked, addressing herself to Susan. "I
don't think I could do very much with this. It's not nearly as
long as Peter's sword."

"Because you're
girls," Edmund broke in self-importantly. "Girls always lose
their heads when they get scared."

"Because,"
said Peter, giving Edmund a look, "I don't want you to get hurt.
What would I tell Aslan and the rest of Narnia if you got killed?
What would I tell Mum?"

The idea of dying did
not seem to worry Lucy much. On the contrary, she seemed quite
amused by the thought. "Tell her we sacrificed ourselves for our
country!" she said, giggling.

"But I'm meant to
fight," said Susan, as though that settled the matter. "Father
Christmas wouldn't have given me real weapons if he didn't want
me to use them."

"In an emergency,"
Peter countered. "You girls aren't to be near the actual battle
at all, if I can help it. If I had things my way, Edmund wouldn't
even be going in to fight."

"I can use a sword
just as well as you can!" protested Edmund.

"It's much easier
to run into battle yourself than to let your family." Peter looked
at each of his siblings in turn. "I have to not let anything happen
to you—to any of you," he added, noticing Edmund's
sullen glare. "The only reason Ed's going is because Aslan has
already ordered his armor prepared."

"So are we not
supposed to help?" asked Lucy rather irritably.

"You're not
supposed to get yourself killed. That would be worse than losing the
battle."

"No, it wouldn't,"
Susan retorted.

"It would as far as
I'm concerned."

Susan gave him a
patronizing pat on the arm. "Well, then, I'll stand off to one
side if it makes you feel better. But you'll let me shoot if I see
an enemy."

"I won't."

"—and I'll stay
hidden and keep my wits about me, and I'll use the bow that
Father Christmas gave to me." Susan's voice contained
enough authority to cow her brother, who reached morosely across the
small table and snagged a few grapes before straightening up and
popping them into his mouth in silence.

"And what about me?"
asked Lucy. "What'll I do?"

"You'll be the
brave healer that stands on the sidelines and saves everyone's
lives just in time," said Edmund with a grin, ending the
discussion. Lucy didn't seem inclined to argue anyway.

After breakfast, the
children went their separate ways. Lucy and Susan went for some
target practice, while the boys found mounts—Peter a unicorn,
Edmund a Talking Horse—to prepare themselves for battle on
horseback. At least, that was their original plan, but when they
actually found themselves on their respective mounts, it was so
enjoyable that they spent a good half-hour just chasing each other
idly around a field. It was Peter who first picked up a sword, and
discovered that maneuvering the thing while on horseback was not as
easy as he might have thought. Together, he and Edmund set to
practicing.

"First blood!"
crowed Edmund as he tapped Peter sharply on the elbow with the flat
of his blade. They circled around each other on brown and white
steeds, their swords flashing in the bright sunlight and ringing out
like twin bells as they struck. These were not heavy, ungainly
weapons, such as what might be found in our world—no, these were
Narnian swords, perfectly balanced, beautifully made, so that it was
not a privilege to wield them, but a joy.

"Your Majesties!"
came an urgent voice from behind them. Edmund craned his neck around
Peter, who had to turn his mount around before he could see who was
speaking.

"Your Majesties!"
repeated Mr. Beaver breathlessly, "She's here!"

"Who?" asked
Edmund, although he had a sinking feeling that he already knew.

"The Witch herself,"
Mr. Beaver said in a voice filled with worry. "She's coming
through the camp right now!"

Edmund looked quickly
at Peter, who glanced back at him. Peter's face, easily read,
reflected first only a feeling of consternation. Then slowly, an
expression of growing alarm appeared on his features.

"Couldn't—she
just leave a message with someone?" Peter asked weakly.

After having been
assured that this was not an option, the brothers made their way down
the hill in the direction of Aslan's encampment, with Mr. Beaver
running a short distance ahead. Sounds of shouting met their ears as
they grew closer; Peter swallowed and spurred his mount on. Edmund
did the same.

Even before they had
technically reached the camp, it was not difficult to see where the
Witch was, for around her stood a crowd of immense proportions.
Every Talking Beast, every faun and centaur, every dryad and naiad,
stood around her, crying out with unabashed anger.

In the midst of this
chaos was the Witch herself; unable to use her sleigh—for here
there was no snow, but green grass and shining skies—she sat
instead on a litter, borne on the shoulders of four gruesome, hulking
creatures. The awful dwarf that Edmund remembered all too well
walked before her, doing his best to shout above the roar, "Make
way for Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Empress of the Lone Islands!",
which was not a statement received well. The Witch herself seemed
deaf to the unflattering shouts around her, but only continued
forward, until the litter stopped directly before Aslan's tent.

As one, the creatures
knelt clumsily, and the Witch dismounted. Instantly there was a
hush. Those under Aslan's protection knew themselves safe, but the
fear the Witch had beaten into them for a hundred years was not to be
easily dismissed. As she stepped forward, the Narnians stepped
backward; Peter and Edmund, at the very edge of the crowd, slid off
their horses and began making their way toward her.

"So," said the
Witch, in a voice that was as icy as her reign and carried on the
wind. She did not have to shout to be heard. "Where is the great
cat?" she asked the multitude in a mocking tone. "Where is your
precious Aslan?"

There had not yet been
time for the news to get around that Aslan had gone; people were
nudging each other, muttering furiously under their breath, looking
anxiously at the gold and red tent, its canvas flaps fluttering in
the wind. The brothers at last reached the front of the crowd, but
were careful to remain inconspicuous, Edmund standing slightly behind
Peter.

The Witch smiled at the
mass of creatures, a cold, tight-lipped smile. She did not see
Edmund, nor Peter, for her back was turned to them. "So your brave
protector does not deign to see me," she said. "No matter—it
is not Aslan that I need. Give me the human traitor, and there will
be no bloodshed."

Cries of shock rang out
around the campground; the little one, with the dark hair, did she
mean him? Yes, she must, for it was he that Aslan had denounced, and
then forgiven. But how dare she ask for such a thing?

"She's mad,"
Peter muttered; he could feel Edmund's hot, nervous breath on the
back of his neck. "Thinking she can march in here and ask for a
prisoner back."

But Mr. Beaver, down
near Peter's feet, shook his head. "It's in the laws of
Narnia," he said in a low voice. "Anyone who betrays Narnia
belongs to her."

The Witch's eyes had
found Susan and Lucy on the opposite side of the crowd, clutching
each others' hands as they watched her with horrified and angered
faces. She smiled that slow, awful smile again. "The Deep Magic
cannot be ignored," she said to them. "Your brother's blood is
my property."

"Try and take him,
then!" Peter burst out, pulling his sword from its sheath with a
sound that sliced the air to point it at the Witch. Alarmed by the
sudden action, Edmund grabbed the back of his shirt before he saw
that Peter intended only to take a single step forward. The Witch
turned, saw them for the first time. The look she gave Peter, cold
and withering, was terribly unnerving, but he did not waver.

Peter's face flushed;
the Witch turned from him as though he were no more threat to her
than a fly, and he sheathed his sword again, biting his lip.

"Aslan knows that
unless I am appeased as the law demands," the Witch was saying,
"all of Narnia will be overturned and perish in fire and water!
That boy—" she whirled, leveling a finger at Edmund's face
"—will die, on the Stone Table!"

The blood drained from
Peter's face. Behind him, he felt Edmund shrink backwards
fearfully, but he grabbed his brother's arm.

"…as is tradition,"
the Witch finished smugly into the shocked silence. "Aslan dares
not refuse me."

His heart pounding
furiously, Peter released Edmund's arm. He desperately wished
Aslan could have foreseen this when he had decided to make Peter
second in command. Stepping forward a short distance into the
circle, he spoke up. "Aslan is not here. Anything you have to say
can be said to me."

Peter's eyes flicked
anxiously around the camp. He dared not take her into Aslan's
tent; that would be sacrilege. The only place he could think of was
the tent where he had slept the night before. Self-consciously,
aware of everyone's eyes upon him and especially the Witch's, he
moved through the crowd. It parted warily for him as he walked
toward the tent; Peter felt Oreius's heavy hand upon his shoulder
as he passed him, and his nerves abated slightly.

He did not look back to
see if the Witch was following him, but when he paused at the
entrance of the tent, there she was. Without thinking, Peter held
the canvas flap open for her; she stepped inside, brushing against
him as she did so, and Peter flinched instinctively. She had to duck
her head, she was so tall. Then Peter stepped inside himself.

As soon as the cloth
fell, leaving them in dimness so that it was a moment before Peter's
eyes adjusted, a coil of fear twisted itself in his stomach. He had
his sword still at his side; the Witch had nothing but her hands.
But they were strong hands, made all of sinew and muscle. They hung,
deceptively idle, at her sides now, but they were powerful all the
same. Peter thought of those hands as he remembered the ugly,
unexplained bruise that still remained on Edmund's cheek, and he
grew a little braver.

"Your wish to save
your brother is a noble one, no doubt," said the Witch, still
standing as she faced him calmly. "But it is a futile one."

"Edmund's not a
traitor," said Peter suddenly, surprised to hear the strength in
his own voice. "He made a mistake."

"And yet he would
have seen you killed," the Witch pointed out sharply. "You and
your sisters and all of Narnia."

Peter opened his mouth
to protest—no, not Edmund. Edmund would have never harmed his
siblings, he had only been selfish, forgotten the inevitable
consequences of his actions—but the Witch stepped closer toward
him, her eyes slits of malice. She bent slightly at the waist,
leaning down and forward as though to speak to a child.

"You have no way of
denying me what is mine," she said, in a voice that was very low.
"You are not a force in Narnia; you are a boy, a lost little boy,
wandering in a world that is not your own. You are not a king, and
not even a king, not even Aslan, could take the traitor from me."

Her eyes were black, so
black, less like pupils and irises than simply two dark holes set
against her white skin. But Peter never took his eyes from hers. He
did not dare to.

"Give me your
brother," she said. Her long fingers reached up to bite into his
shoulder. "Give me the traitor, and Narnia lives. Take him for
yourself, keep him selfishly for a few miserable days, and Narnia
will die, crushed under the weight of the Deep Magic."

Peter could almost feel
his shoulders sagging with the burden she was placing upon them. It
seemed to take every ounce of strength he had to just keep standing
straight, to force his chin up, to keep staring into those bottomless
eyes that bored into him.

"But mark my words,"
said the Witch, emphasizing each word as she spoke,
"I—must—have—blood."

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